In its center all is water
you were saying that night, if you remember
as the fire was dimming the light
on moist fingernails slowly peeling
the dry skin from the orange
before sinking into its yellow succulence
A woman, the boy, fruit – everything
in this world is made of water
simmering indifferent or silent within them
languidly sometime breaking out in sweat
to quench the thirst of its creatures
before evaporating upward again
The surface of water is called earth
and its homeland the clouds
in the impenetrable interior of air
while fire is extinguished at its shudder
batting eyelashes, I think you were saying
with the end’s fiery gaze
I am afraid, I had said, before you spoke
of inflicting evil on you with all I carry
with hands that do not resist the cold
when my thought freezes as
the wind burns the face behind it
deserting dust carved in relief
You rose then not to stoke the fire
but to bring me some water
without my asking for it yet
letting it run for a while
closer to the heart of the liquid deposit
that shines precious drops on the glass
I have tried many times to remember
exactly what you said that night
and why your words, unforgotten
though not remembered
comforted me in a translucent way
softening on me wherever they flowed
I know that when I come home burdened
I peel the dry garments off now
let the water run naked on the body
and have the sense of bathing with light
in the dark bathroom, but even if light enters
I close my eyes
Don’t be afraid, you said, if this love is not
as you think, something solid, of earth
but a sandcastle sinking
while a boat traversing the deep
mails waves to shore
sprinkling babies with salt
A being is fluid
so it can flow on the body’s slopes
and fit in the vessels of the soul
before it returns water to water
before it discovers its ends at the center
before it becomes centered
Nothing can hide in water
As upon it falls the grain imprinting
the universe and before it dissolves
it rocks its hard surface
reconstructing reflections
in water’s memory – remember?
of every moment one forgets
Cleanse your own words if not mine
at the sound of the tap or the waterfall
which bring water from the center of water
being within us so deep at the origin
until that moment arrives
when it has finally circled us all
No need to remember my exact words
Let go, though
Don’t let me go
Translated by Maria Koundoura & the author
[From Roads of Ink]